


Give Anything

by McColSHLoki



Category: Lokane - Fandom, Loki - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Death, F/M, G, Love, M/M, Parenthood, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:17:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McColSHLoki/pseuds/McColSHLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Dark World/Reichenbach<br/>At the hands of a wild and emotion centered mind, I bring you a tumblr inspired story about the characters I have formed a great bond with: Sherlock, John and Loki.<br/>John and Sherlock have married and are in love when they decide to adopt a little boy whose mother died in labour and whose father is unknown.  They bring him up with love and adoration when Hamish begins to show signs of interesting abilities.  It is not long before they find out who Hamish's real father is, and what had happened to cause it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Give Anything

**Author's Note:**

> This is a making of my two major ships: Lokane and Johnlock. I am playing Loki as more of a broken soul though, and I m sorry for any OOC moments. Hamish is my 'own' character i suppose you could say, though really he is tumblrs child.

** I Would Give Anything **

_By M.D. Iles Inspired by a post on tumblr ( follow believeinsuperwhoavengelock ) as well as on Inastagram @believeinsuperwholock_

_Please tell me what you think, vote, comment, follow!!!_

_By the time I was your age, I'd give anything_

_To fall in love truly, was all I could think_

_That's when I met your mother, the girl of my dreams_

_The most beautiful woman, that I'd ever seen_

_She said, "Boy can I tell you a wonderful thing?_

_I can't help but notice, you're staring at me._

_I know I shouldn't say this, but I really believe,_

_I can tell by your eyes that you're in love with me."_

_Now, son, I'm only telling you this_

_Because life can do terrible things._

_-Terrible Things, Mayday Parade_

 

They loved the boy. They loved him beyond words.

They had brought him home, wrapped up in an indigo blanket as soft as the little boy’s skin with emerald sewing in intricate patterns. His head was a mop of raven locks, small curls shaping it on his crown. His hands were tiny pale fists, his cheekbones already a prominent feature on his face, despite his being 2 months old. And beneath his little lilac coloured eyelids were large almond shaped eyes of emerald, his jet black lashes long and framing.

They knew they loved him by the moment they stepped into the orphanage and wandered the halls with the head nurse. They knew they had found their son when Sherlock paused by a crib with the raven haired little boy staring up at the detective knowingly. John stood by the man with a loving smile as he watched the two have a complete conversation with their beautifully unique eyes. It was almost as though this boy was in fact Sherlock’s kin, that he had given his inheritance to the boy. And in that moment, John knew that this boy was theirs: he was meant for them, and they him.

The kindly woman grinned at them and handed them the papers, telling them how amazing it was that they were adopting and just how wonderful it was. Sherlock’s heart lifted and the feeling of utter love for the boy deepened as the woman told them his story.

A woman had stumbled into the nearby hospital, large with child and in the early stages of labour. None of that was a problem though, and the fact that the father was nowhere to be seen did little to dampen the nurses’ sympathy, for this woman was sickly. What must have ordinarily been beautiful, shining light brown hair was dull and thin with stress and hardship. Her once stunning eyes had become just as dull and a film of despair coated them. Her cheek bones were shadowed by the dips of her cheeks, the circles under her eyes deep and dark. She was unnaturally pale for her complexion and her voice cracked with the effort of talking. It was a pity, for she had a beautiful feminine voice. She had been asked who the father was before they brought her into the delivery room, but her answer was silenced by the contractions, as was she when hours later, when she died while the little boy started to cry. Many of the nurses sobbed with strangling emotion as the little baby cried for a mother who could not comfort him about the abruptness of the new world.

It was later found out that the woman was Jane Foster, a well-known astrophysicist, though the orphanage lady, named Margaret, could not tell John and Sherlock this, for her dying wish was to keep her pregnancy a secret.

The most interesting of things, Margaret told them, was when the mother died, lighting and thunder split the sky suddenly, and the barrage persisted for the rest of the day.

Sherlock felt right taking this boy in, knowing he didn’t fit into the rest of society, he was different; special. Much like himself, and John felt that too as the new father held the boy adoringly in his arms.

“Hamish,” Sherlock whispered to the sleeping boy in his long, pale arms that matched Hamish’s while he swayed soothingly “You are loved and I promise you will be for as long as you live. You are the apple of my eye, little Hamish and I will forever be there for you, I don’t care the distance or price; I love you. And I am sure you mother would do the same, if she could. Hamish, we love you.” A tear slipped past Johns guard and fell silently onto his arm, a watery eyed Margaret giving the doctor a shaky smile.

That night they brought Hamish home and showed him the flat: 221B, their home at the moment, until the boy grew up. They did not know that they would stay there for far longer than they had thought, none of them having the heart to move away: it was home. They laid him down in the cot after caring for the helpless human, his bright deep green eyes staring up at the men, John’s arm wrapped around Sherlock’s waist and his head on his shoulder. Hamish stared up at them with the knowledge of the universe before they drifted closed obligingly.

That became a tradition. They brought him to bed every night and gave him a kiss on the forehead, one last smile full of love before those emerald eyes fluttered close against the night. Even as he grew older, stretching taller as he became the dashing young man he was destined to be, his faced carved with bizarre wisdom and mystic, his eyes piercing and strong. He rarely allowed his hair to be cut, letting the dark locks fall to his shoulders in loose, subtle curls at the ends. His face held a kindness though as did his hands, a clear trait of the mystery mother. He was an intelligent and cunning boy, and at the age of five, understood all that a man of sixteen could know. He had a sharp, sarcastic tongue that Sherlock admired and was proud of, despite the soft discipline he was required to give. It wasn’t until the boy was ten that he began to show qualities of inhuman ability.

A boy was being a boy on the playground at school, harassing young Hamish for his parents being gay, calling him queer and a faggot. The moment Sherlock had heard that, he wished to hurt the persecutor, but that was until he learned that the boy was suffering from burns that no one knew how he had gotten. All anyone knew was that by the time they had pulled Hamish off the rude little git, he had casual frost burns on his forearms. Hamish would tell them nothing of what happened, causing for the first time ever, Sherlock’s wrath.

 

Every now and again, mysterious incidents would happen involving Hamish and still he would not admit to anything. Sherlock would become aggravated, only calmed down when john would come from the kitchen and handed a tea to Sherlock and Hamish, allowing them to talk coolly of what happened. Still, he said nothing. Soon, these incidents began happening with other students involved. The dads wondered but let it slide. They had known from the moment they laid eyes on Hamish that he was different. Only they hadn’t known to what extent. But they knew the day Hamish got back to the flat after school with a plump round face, short brown hair and standing a foot shorter that they knew just how different he was.


	2. Something Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Dark World/Reichenbach  
> At the hands of a wild and emotion centered mind, I bring you a tumblr inspired story about the characters I have formed a great bond with: Sherlock, John and Loki.  
> John and Sherlock have married and are in love when they decide to adopt a little boy whose mother died in labour and whose father is unknown. They bring him up with love and adoration when Hamish begins to show signs of interesting abilities. It is not long before they find out who Hamish's real father is, and what had happened to cause it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a making of my two major ships: Lokane and Johnlock. I am playing Loki as more of a broken soul though, and I m sorry for any OOC moments. This also applies for Sherlock, who I wanted to be different in his home life then he was in public. Hamish is my 'own' character i suppose you could say, though really he is tumblrs child.

Hamish was always far smarter than what his age called for. Even his structure and appearance led people to believe that he was in his late teens rather than his early teens. He was tall; far taller than any other boy of his age, towering a good foot over the littluns, his cheeks hollowed and attractive, his wide eyes a soft inheritance from his mother. He had skipped several grades by the time he was 12, now in his tenth year of school. He blended in nicely, though not smoothly, for his snappy mouth had earned him several black eyes. He looked like any other high schooler though, for he was nearing six feet and he was lean and handsome, his long black hair accenting his features admirably.   
John and Sherlock had learned that day when their boy returned home with a different face that he held exceptional, extraordinary powers: he could shape shift. And he had been doing so to prevent himself from holding the blame, changing into another young boy whilst still abusing his power. He still refused to explain the frost burns on that sorrowful little git, but Sherlock could not find it in him to reprimand Hamish, knowing full well the cruel nature of humanity.   
In fact, he secretly admired the young boy’s capability to hand out the reparations. He frequently told him in quiet passing that he was proud of that strength to stand up, for he himself was never able to. He did so subtly though, knowing John would never approve of his support as he had never known the fist in school, never known what it felt like to be slammed up against the lockers and screamed at and beaten for being different. But Sherlock did, oh he did. So because of that, he couldn’t summon it in him to tell his son off for pushing back, no matter how abnormally.  
Truthfully though, John was just as proud to know that his son wasn’t like the others, taking comfort in the fact that he fit in with the two of them, the crowning jewel in their potpourri of bizarreness. They were proud of their son for his supernatural abilities, but it never sat well in either of their stomachs, for it meant that he was not one of ‘them’. But that thought was on the back burner: it didn’t matter, they loved him.  
They took the boy to their work, showing him about the crime scenes and hospitals until he was entirely familiar and knowledgeable in the ways of both their works, a quick study as he learned Sherlock’s vivid detail and John’s brave compassion. He was not easily phased, even leaning closer to the mangled bodies, dead and alive, searching down every detail there was to see, and hitting the snarky remarks of others away with a glint of his eye and witty, if not insulting, response.  
But if there was anything that truly made the couple look at each other with their brows creased in worry, it was the fact that he had obviously known that neither of his parents was his real father. Even at the early age of three, when someone would come up and say what an adorable child he was and what proud fathers John and Sherlock must be, Hamish would stop them and tell them:  
“No, they are my Papa” he said, pointing to John “and my Dada.” a long pale finger pointing to Sherlock. “They are not my father.” The person that he spoke to would have simply been shocked at the young boys stunning articulation and sentence structure. But his blunt, honest knowledge clearly sent their heads spinning, making them straighten immediately, looking at young Hamish as if he were a strange growth.   
Neither John nor Sherlock had told him about his parentage and he had never asked. Instead, they had all settled into a silent agreement of the truth, lazily anticipating the day when truth would poke its head out.

 

Hamish turns thirteen in a days time, in Grade 10 of high school  
“Hey Da!” Hamish was in the kitchen, his head buried in the fridge as he searched about for some form of food among the experiments and random limbs. Silence. “Daaaa!!!” he sing songed, lifting his head from the fridge to catch the older man’s curly head popping around the corner, rubber gloves and apron on.  
“Where’s the fire, Hamish?” he asked dryly, a smirk on his lips.   
Adopting a very Jack Sparrow-esque accent, he replied:  
“Why is the milk always gone?” Sherlock gave him a cheeky grin. “Also,” he continued, reverting to his usual-unusually deep voice. “Pa used the rest of the jam this morning.”  
“That man! What are we ever going to do with him?” Sherlock joked, walking towards the cupboard as he took off the gloves, tossing them onto the science filled island. He popped open the small door and reached inside, withdrawing a jar of homemade blackberry jam. “Or, more precisely, you. You know Mrs. Hudson gave this to us yesterday. You’re slipping, Hamish.” he needled as he passed the jar to his son. Hamish took the jar and leaned back down to place it on a shelf separate from his Da’s supplies.  
“Yes, well seeing that the final exams of the first semester are coming soon, I would think that my mind should be occupied by that, don’t you think?” he challenged.   
“We both know that’s not quite true though.” Sherlock countered in all seriousness. His son sighed heavily before taking out a block of cheese and butter, making a rare grilled cheese sandwich, cutting the cheese and spreading the butter before plopping it down into the heated pan.   
Like his Da, Hamish had the bad habit of eating only when completely necessary, which sometimes meant he didn’t consume anything but water or tea for days. John was constantly trying to force food into both his boy’s bodies, succeeding on occasion. But, to his relief, they had started to eat more frequently, leaving only a day or two between actual meals.  
Sherlock put a hand on Hamish’s shoulder, making him look up to see a small observant smile on the detectives face. Hamish’s eyebrows went up in a thoughtful glance even though he was used to his Da knowing everything with a sweep of the eyes: he was surprised to see that he could survey him at the moment. He had been getting better at hiding himself from Sherlock, but obviously he had let his guard down. The magic that flowed within him had been moving in a different way of late, and he wished to keep that knowledge from his dads.   
Ah yes, the magic. It had been a shock at the start, making the men look at their son in an entirely different way, making them wonder and question the world. But they never lost their love for the boy. In fact, his abilities made them love him even more. They couldn’t exactly pin point it. Maybe it’s the honesty that makes love even the more appealing, because then you can love the person entirely for who they are, and not who you like to think they are. Who knows truly; the human heart is funny and bizarre and beautiful.   
But now, Hamish was able to strengthen it at home, John and Sherlock encouraging him to discover who he was, telling him they were all for it as long it was kept within the walls of reason.   
They would often come home to find a different being sitting at the table poring over notes and books, a cup of tea at hand. The child or adult, and even sometimes animal, would look up with an expression of pure elation as he watched the shock register on the men’s faces before they were able to smile and admire his dexterity. They would often have fun with his shape-shifting, carrying out plays at times, playing out their favourite books with great zeal and knowledge.   
Often, Hamish would shift into a dog or cat of some sort and find his dads on their way home, following them diligently, persisting, simply to see how they reacted. At first, Sherlock was baffled if not annoyed at the creature, telling it to shoo, be gone. Hamish would watch as John scolded him while picking the ‘animal’ up, asking it/him pointless questions before putting him down then watching the little animal scamper away, so that Hamish could make it home before them. But eventually, Sherlock would bend down and offer his hand out to the poor little animal that Hamish had shifted into, at first with sympathy in his eyes. But it wasn’t long before, one day, he crouched down and winked at the animal as it leaned into the hand that petted him. Hamish had frozen and looked at his Dad, searching the familiar, elegant face. Slowly he approached Sherlock, shrugging out of his form with a golden shimmer, eliciting a gasp out of John. His pa had almost started to lecture his son on the dangers of exposing his craft like that, but Sherlock silenced him with a hand before scooping up his then eleven year old overly long son into his arms and carrying him home, picking up merry conversation with his son and John, like they had not just discovered Hamish’s after school activities.  
Hamish looked back up at Sherlock, who had dropped his hand from Hamish’s shoulder and was at the island, gloves in hand and flipping through a case book, his sandwich sizzling in the pan. He picked up the block of cheese he had left out, turning it over in his hands.  
“Watch this, Da!” he said exuberantly. Sherlock brought his head up and looked at Hamish from the book out of the tops of his eyes, taking in his stance and the block in his hands. He nodded and Hamish smiled before closing his eyes and going inside of himself, searching for and grasping the golden tendrils fluttering about. We worked them thoroughly, though still quickly, forming them into ropes until he could manipulate them to his fingertips. This all happened within two seconds, so when he let go of the block of cheese, Sherlock hadn’t expected the block to stay in place, let alone move as Hamish flicked his fingers upwards. It was invisible to everyone but Hamish, the golden shimmering ropes holding loosely onto the block.  
“Hamish… That’s…. Amazing! Just extraordinary!” Sherlock exclaimed, his mouth slack in awe. Hamish chuckled, knowing that his Da got those phrases from Pa, John being the only ever to praise him.  
“It surprised me too.” Hamish explained absently, sentences less structured as he concentrated. Moving his long nimble fingers in big, smooth movements, he made the cheese block jerk back and forth or fly smoothly across the room and back. “The usual gang was trying to corner me, so I could feel it inside me ever stronger. I flicked my hand, concentrating on a table and BAM! It nailed them! Oh, it was sweet! You should have seen the pricks face’s. You could taste the justice! They ran away like pathetic little lemmings.” He said with an air of righteousness.  
“Hamish…” Sherlock warned, more as an after-thought. His eyes followed the cheese block as it danced across the room with dazed interest, a child-like smile playing on his lips.  
“Oh, Da. You know you love it.” Hamish teased, his emerald eyes flashing gleefully, raven locks falling into his eyes despite the lazy styling.   
“Obviously.” He responded, his eyes meeting Hamish’s, a grin blooming true across Sherlock’s face. Hamish threw back a fervent smile.  
“OK, I’m going to try something new.” He told his dad. He had finally gotten the handle of holding conversation whilst toying freely with his new found telepathic type ability, but he was about to add in a new dimension to it: multitasking.   
“Go for it.” Sherlock offered. Hamish shut his eyes again, taking a deep breath and stretching the magic about him, forming a new length, separate from the block half way across the room. He was in his own mind palace so he did not notice when John walked in then pause when Sherlock gestured for him to be silent and watch, standing in the kitchen doorway.  
Hamish made the block stay still, his pale fingers rigid in its direction. He dropped off his right hand with some difficulty, threading new magic into the fingertips there. Once confident that the block would stay where it was, ten seconds after John had arrived, he reached towards the fridge door. After he felt the golden tendrils grasp it, he clenched his right hand, feeling the door pop open at will. Squeezing, the door swung open until he stopped it. Keeping it there and taking another deep breath, he flicked his left fingers, and the cheese block flew into the fridge before he paused it and directed it softly into its proper place. Letting go of the magic around the cheese, he slowly let go of his clenched fist and made a sweeping motion with his fingers, swinging the door closed. Once he heard the reassuring bump of the door, he released the magic, mistakenly, and felt it wind viciously back into him, causing him to wince.  
“Hamish… John breathed, calling the boy’s attention to him. Hamish’s face lit up and he grinned.  
“Pa! You saw that, obviously! Wasn’t it something?!” he pressed eagerly. John was at a loss of words, his mouth gaping like a fish on land.  
“That wasn’t something.” He started, watching his son’s face fall. He shook his head, smiling. “You are something else.” Hamish let out a laugh in relief and walked over to his dad’s, hugging them tightly then turning back to the sandwich in the pan, threading his magic back out of himself and lifting the bread out of the pan, flipping it and letting it flop back down onto the heat. Behind him, Sherlock let out a guffaw, pride beating through his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks! Please tell me what you think!


	3. Little Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Dark World/Reichenbach  
> At the hands of a wild and emotion centered mind, I bring you a tumblr inspired story about the characters I have formed a great bond with: Sherlock, John and Loki.  
> John and Sherlock have married and are in love when they decide to adopt a little boy whose mother died in labour and whose father is unknown. They bring him up with love and adoration when Hamish begins to show signs of interesting abilities. It is not long before they find out who Hamish's real father is, and what had happened to cause it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a making of my two major ships: Lokane and Johnlock. I am playing Loki as more of a broken soul though, and I m sorry for any OOC moments.

“Loki?  What is wrong?”  It was Sif who was speaking, her proper and articulated speech flooding in through a wall of pain.  

Loki elicited a great sigh, removing his hand that was pinching the bridge of his nose in pained concentration.  The tasking and buzzing presence in his mind had been persisting for over three Midgardian years, now and again.  But just very recently, as in for the past ten minutes, he could swear his head was going to split open from the pressure.  It wasn’t so much that it hurt; the pressing and tugging in his mind was something of a warm sensation, a connection.  It was more of the fact that he had no idea why that caused him displeasure, for he was a man- of sorts- centered on knowledge.  Because of that, his mind was chewing at itself savagely, somehow even more than was usual.

“No, Lady Sif.  I am merely pretending that my pain is substantial.  I thought that mayhaps it would be laugh.”  he snapped unkindly.  “And why would it bother you, if I dare ask?”  he glared at her, his angular, sleek face peering at the floor, contrasting brilliantly with his undone ebony hair that fell, recently cut, half way down his shoulders. 

Sif had obviously been passing through the quaint hallway on the way to the practice arena when she had come across Loki, who was crouched in a corner in his casual tunic and trousers, a golden chain slung across his neck, the jewel hidden.  His brow had been knit intricately and eyes clenched shut in blunt and honest agony.  Now he turned those forest green eyes on her, the bitterness only in his face; a strange fear in his eyes.  She stepped toward him gingerly.  She had found she could only hold something reminiscent of a grudge against Loki, because for the past age she had watched the trickster become reclusive and, if she didn’t know the god, depressed.  

 

It had been near fifteen years since Malekith had returned and Loki redeemed.  Odin still sat on the throne after Thor turned it down, though now he was waiting in the wings again, due to a change of heart. Loki had been tempted to take it from his grasp.  But that was ages ago, and now he could care less what his birth right was, whether it was to wither and die on a cold hard rock millennia ago, or to be an all-powerful king.  His fate was now tied with a bitter fact he had ridiculed Thor for, fourteen years ago. 

 

She looked both ways down the dark hall that had torches adorning the closed in passageway, shield in hand, before turning back to Loki and sitting down beside his place in the corner, the torches light glinting off her bronze armour.

“Because, for some bizarre reason, I feel that we should be bothered by it.  All of us.”  She said softly, looking anywhere but the man in question.  Still she could feel his eyebrows dart up his face in sarcastic question.

“Really.” He said dully.  “And why do you think I need your sympathy, _Lady_ Sif?”

Sif turned her head and looked at him briefly, catching his green eyes before looking forwards again.

“Why don’t you?   You haven’t exactly been you for the past while.”  

“I didn’t know there was a definition for what is known as ‘me’.” He said dryly. 

“There is always a compass for when something is right or wrong with someone.  Yours just so happens to be hidden.”  She made no effort to move any closer to Loki, or farther away for that matter.  And because of that, Loki was grateful.  Still, he could not keep the venom out of his voice.

“And how is it that you think you know what my compass is?  You know nothing of me, Sif!”  A frivolous feeling took up in the pit of Loki’s stomach, and images from years long gone came flooding into his mind, making him choke on breath.  He found himself on his feet, a fire made of misery was licking in his belly.  Words came spilling out in bitter tones before they could make their way past reason, unguarded.  “You… You stand there as if you know, as if you had any idea!  You know nothing outside of the ranks of battle!  You call yourself a warrior, but what are you really?  You have never touched the flame of heartache’s essence.  You do not know what it feels like to be cast out by family that is not even yours and told to sit down like nothing had changed!  You have never known what it feels like to have emotion gone rank in your veins, and have that drive you mad!  You know nothing of what it is to have a fleeting image of a treasured love and have it shatter on the floor!  You know nothing of true pain, so why in the name of Valhalla should I listen to you?!”  His heated roar came back down, leaving an odd, enhanced pain sitting in his chest as he stood there heaving against the air spent on raw emotion.  

Sif had found her feet then, standing up.   She made no move, just standing there and letting Loki catch himself, keeping pity graciously from her eyes, though a dislike filled them instead.  

“You’re right.  I don’t know anything.  I have Thor now, so I obviously know nothing of what it feels like to desire something beyond reason.  I am a silly little girl you have no reason to feel camaraderie with let alone confide in.  But, if you ever want to talk to someone who might understand… Find some other person.”  With that she turned on her heel and marched out of the room, feet slapping the stone floor angrily.

With Sif gone, Loki’s words came rushing back to him in full force.  He had almost let out the origin of his pain, and that panicked him.  He backed up against the wall and closed his eyes, letting himself shake with the memories of past.  His bottom lip trembled as he let the spasms of pain travel up his body for the first time in ages, tears threatening to spill over.  And in that dark, dimly lit hallway with the buzzing presence in his mind dulling, he found himself whispering impossible words:

“Come back to me, darling.  I miss you.”

He closed his eyes in an attempt to collect himself, with little success. 

People call him, and still do, a psychopath, incapable of emotion, on a rampage for the simple fact that he could, that he was a greedy little child who wanted a shiny toy.  That was not his problem.  Not even close.  A psychopath doesn’t feel emotions so strong that they may just rip the life from ones chest.  A psychopath is not capable of loving a woman he has a flutter of a sparrows wings worth of time with at most.  A psychopath is not able to love a fake family so desperately that he would rip apart a world so he could show them how he was them, not the monsters he had grown up with as nightmares.  A psychopath does not have emotional attachments like Loki has. 

He sighed and took in a deep breath, wiping at his face his hand.  He stepped away from the wall and started down the dark hall, blindly taking several turns until he ended up at his room.  He laid a hand on the twisted golden knob and stopped, bracing himself before stepping inside.  The room was adorned in gold and emerald features, an impressive space to be inside.  The door swung open to reveal the grand, open space with several adjoining rooms, all decked out in gold and emerald. The floors were covered in a smooth light gold carpet and he had a room dedicated to his studies, books piled high in towering shelves and papers written in various languages were scattered about on various tables. In a room over was his bedroom, where a massive and impressive bed stayed, billowing blankets and plush pillows spilling over the edges, the emerald material endowed with gold. 

He had once enjoyed being in that room, and for a short few months, had even loved the place with a passion, because that room opened up to a balcony, flowing curtains on either side that danced in the wind.  The deck looked out to and beyond the gardens, the trees reaching high and colourful birds swooping in and out of the foliage, small animals nibbling at the flowers below, the many towers and finally, the glittering waters of Asgard, stretching until they met the galaxy of the sky.     He rarely went out onto the balcony, using it only in memory of the days when he loved the room, as he did now.   And here he stood now, a shadow of his old self, reminiscing back to when the destruction of the God of Mischief began: with a mortal woman, of all things.

It had been a simple thing, coming back from the dead.  He had considered taking the throne from the oh-so-weak All Father, and had nearly done so after Thor had come to him as Odin, confessing how he thought that Loki deserved the throne.  Sure, it was true that Loki did deserve to rule on that throne, but they were practically giving it to him, and what fun was there in that?  He talked to his ‘father’, telling him how he yearned to speak to his brother, and it was a simple act of summoning the oaf of a loving man to the throne room and having Odin speak to him shortly about the honour Loki had done to Asgard, before the mischief maker in question stepped out.  Thor was caught in a fit of rage at Loki’s deception, but was quickly intrigued in how his brother had survived.   For once, Loki saw no reason but to tell the truth, or at least most of it. 

He told him that Thor had needed to do it on his own, that Loki did not think it wise of him to return to Midgard, not on the circumstances that he left.  He told him that he knew it would act as a burden to them when they arrived, and his staged death had provided that extra fire in Thor’s belly to propel him towards his victory.  He did not tell his brother, of-sorts, that he did not do it for those particular reasons: those were the after-thought excuses.   He did not tell Thor, then, that he tried to disappear in an attempt to escape the love he could not have, for the woman whose heart and small life span did not belong to him.   He did not tell Thor that he envied him, and that he loved Jane.  He did not tell him, more so, he could not; so he lied through his clenched teeth, a biting monster clawing at his mind wanting to scream his infatuation as far as Valhalla and Folkvangr. 

He managed to leave promptly as was possible, his leather coat tails flapping behind him as he exited the throne room on swift feet, away from the brother he loved, and the woman he yearned for: who was hiding inconspicuously behind one of the grand pillars that survived.   He ducked into a small hidden hallway that carried on for a ways before it came upon his chambers.  He could hear the petite beautiful woman cautiously sneaking her way to the door he had disappeared into, and by the time she had stolen into the passageway, he had made fair progress down it, his long legs striding in an attempt to vanish, to not have to confront Jane, because who knows what his mouth would say. 

But he could hear those perfect little feet slapping the cold stone, her gentle, soft hands holding the icy blue material of her dress up in front of her as she ran after him.   Loki’s heart clenched in his chest and he found his feet slowing, allowing her to catch up to him as he rounded a corner.

“That was a rotten trick, Loki!”  Jane called after him, coming down to a rushed gated walk.   She cut around the corner and reached out to Loki, who was only several feet in front of her.  He could sense the air being sliced by the graceful hand, and all of a sudden he was stopped and turning around to face her.

“Ah, yes.  I thought that was you I sensed.”  He gave her a tiny cold smile, fighting to keep his mind at pace.  “Spying are we?  Not what I expected of you.  Shouldn’t be doing that, Lady Jane.” he tsk-ed playfully.

“Oh really?  And why shouldn’t I?  Have something to hide?” she snapped, a refined fury burning in those elegant brown eyes, and Loki found himself staring into them the way he did when they had first met, after she had charged up to him and slapped him hard across his face.  It was in that moment he had known he was done for, why Thor loved the woman so.  But the fact that she sensed just how much he was hiding caught him, and he felt his guard slipping mysteriously, his tongue not letting his mind know that it was loosing. 

“And if I do?  Why should I confide in _you_?  Why should I tell _you_ \- of all people- when even the All-Father could never care.”  The bizarre words fell off his tongue and landed oddly into the some dozen feet between them.  His heart began to beat out of rhythm as he came to terms with the fact that he did not feel anything warmly towards Odin anymore, and that he had just voiced it.

Jane looked at him with a momentary kindness, the fury dulling in her eyes and soft pink lips popping open.

“Because maybe you do need to tell someone.”  Something was choking Loki, and he could feel water coating his eyes.  He gasped and ducked his head briefly.  Turning back, he brought up his full height, and stepped towards her, closing the space between them by a few more feet, towering a fair head and a bit over the woman. 

“Like your Midgardian brain could even begin to comprehend.” he spat, desperately trying to steer the conversation away from him.  “What do you want, anyways?  I do believe you were telling me off for I had played a trick.  Quite amusing that you should be so surprised, seeing that I am what your people call ‘the trickster’.”

He could watch the fire take up again in her eyes, resuming her duty of honouring the oaf she loved so.

“You nearly destroyed him, Loki!  Honestly, wasn’t it enough that he had lost Frigga?  And then you add on this bullshit?!”  Loki cocked an eyebrow at the obtuse slang but she shook her head and continued.  “I can’t believe it Loki!  I had it in my head that you were almost-maybe something good, but I know for a fact that you did not do that for Thor, even if he can’t see it!  So who, or what, did you do it for this time?!”

“How dare you…” he faltered, trying to find ground on which to fight on.  “You pretend to bear intelligence, but it is so mind numbingly clear just how ignorant you are, really.”  _Good,_ he thought _, it will be easier for her to hate you._

_“I can’t believe you-”_

“Well _get used to it!”_

Her mouth popped open as she stared at him, his gaze intent and hard, his raven locks falling closer to his face, head angled down towards her.

“What is _wrong_ with you?  How could you do this?”

“Why does it matter so much to you, _woman?!”_

“He’s your _brother-_ ”

He cut her off with a finger and a stone cold gaze even harsher than the last.

“He’s _your_ _lover_.”

“But he’s _your brother,_ Loki!” 

 “ _But he’s not!  He’s not my brother, Jane!_ He bellowed deeply.  “Not really.”

Silence.  Loki fell back internally on his words, wondering what he just told her.

“What..?” she whispered.  Quickly he gathered himself and pushed past that, ignoring her soft question.

“And we both know that that _oaf_ could never have done half of what he did if he didn’t have the proper leverage. He only ever takes something seriously if he has something to fight for.” He lied smoothly.

“He had Frigga and the realms: is that not enough?  I truly do doubt that you did it for him, Loki.”

“Think what you want, woman.  See if I care.” He retorted, turning away abruptly as he began to walk away.

“I want the truth, Loki!” she confronted as she called out, stepping towards him.  He stopped in his tracks though he did not turn around.

“The truth.  You want _the truth_?” he demanded angrily, finally angling his head towards her until his body followed, silence filling the hallway.  And as his eyes met hers, her gaze intensified and she stepped closer, so there was few feet between them.  She was not backing down.

“Yes.” she challenged.  He stared at her, taking in every inch.  The way her hair fell about her head, flowing freely from her head, curving around her soft round chin.  The way her brown eyelashes fluttered gracefully, obstructing the view of her perfect, beautiful brown eyes.  He stared down the length of her delicately exquisite body, the way the folds of icy blue fabric and armour clung to her like she was life.

“I cannot guarantee that you will like it.” He told her strongly, stepping ever so closer.

 “You can’t guarantee that I won’t.” she countered, her chin jutting out closer as she stared up at his emerald eyes, his breath on hers.

And with that, Loki’s hands darted up from his sides and clutched her face with a gentle ferocity, as if he were holding a delicate china doll he desired with a certain vigor, bringing her lips to his in a desperate longing.  He kissed her with all the passion he had neglected over time, all the love he had desired to show her, almost harshly. 

And at first she froze against his touch, lips stopped in shock.  But it was not long before she was moving against him as well, her hands on his waist and shoulders, allowing his advances, his tongue dancing in her mouth, his teeth tugging at her bottom lip, their bodies almost flush, his head angled down towards her. 

Before they knew it, they were up against a wall, Jane’s back pressed against the stone wall of the narrow hall way.  Loki’s right hand was tangled in the mass of Jane’s hair while the other dragged up and down her side.  Jane’s left hand gripped at Loki’s head, the other between his shoulders as he trailed away from her mouth, kissing along her jawline and throat.  She opened up her neck letting him press kisses into her soft skin, bruising it with passionate intensity.

And despite Loki’s assurance that Jane would push him away, yell and scold him for his advances, for his blunt expression.  But she did not.  Quite the opposite: she leaned into his every touch, sighing as he kissed her, delicate hands holding him close, her eyes closed in joy.  So he didn’t feel the need to stop, showing his desires with rough, hasty hands, his body pressed from point to tip against her small frame, engulfing himself in her lavender scent and the plush touch of her perfect lips. 

So when the noises of guards and the voice of his brother started to flit through the passageway, it took every ounce of will power to pull away from the precious woman, cup her face with a large pale hand before vanishing with a flick of magic.  He glided through the hall before he arrived at his chambers, hearing the banter of Thor and the guards melt away, but not before they met up with Jane, her elegant voice winding its way through the stones.  He could not bring himself to listen to their words, his mind still in that hallway, his lips still on Jane’s, his body entwined with hers.  And that is how it began: the destruction of the God of Mischief, with a mortal woman no less.


	4. Worry Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Dark World/Reichenbach  
> At the hands of a wild and emotion centered mind, I bring you a tumblr inspired story about the characters I have formed a great bond with: Sherlock, John and Loki.  
> John and Sherlock have married and are in love when they decide to adopt a little boy whose mother died in labour and whose father is unknown. They bring him up with love and adoration when Hamish begins to show signs of interesting abilities. It is not long before they find out who Hamish's real father is, and what had happened to cause it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a making of my two major ships: Lokane and Johnlock. I am playing Loki as more of a broken soul though, and I m sorry for any OOC moments. Hamish is my 'own' character i suppose you could say, though really he is tumblrs child.

The inky midnight sky filled with galaxies stretched out before Loki, ending when it kissed the dark sloshing waves of the ocean that laid on either side of the glittering bridge he walked on his way to the Bifrost.  He did his best to keep his head up and mighty, like the prince he was.  But a heaviness filled in his chest and a pinching persisted behind the bridge of his nose.  So as he continued down the walkway, on foot as he liked to do often, he let his chin drop, his shoulders slouch forward under the weight.   He wore a simple green, closer fitting tunic, worn leather trousers on his legs and his customary dress jacket, leather flaps falling with his movements and the silent wind. 

He had put effort into his appearance today, for it was the day that Jane had passed into Valhalla from the realm of Midgard.  It was the day Loki had begun to find it difficult to force his body out of his room every morning.  It was the day something in his heart dropped out, leaving an agonizing emptiness in the pit of it. 

See, Jane left suddenly.  She didn’t say much, and the words she did use were for the purpose of shaming and honouring the two brothers into being incapable of following Jane, of making sure she was safe. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leave, _she had told him,_ forget me.  Leave me be. _Loki turned around hastily from where he stood on his balcony, looking at Jane, who stood in the middle of his bedroom dressed in her casual robes that shone a delicate red and blue, encasing her beautiful frame perfectly. The golden sunlight that soaked the room brought out her every feature, making the room a warm golden mass.  The hue hugged her every imperfect perfection.  But he could not take her beauty in, like he had every time he looked at her.  Because she was rigid and cold, as though she had not spent almost every waking moment in his arms._

What? _He had snapped unpleasantly, her words leaving a strange, winded feeling in his gut._

_She drew herself up more so and stared him down.  Him, the man she loved.  Him, the warm frost giant who stood there now with his casual clothes on, unguarded.  Him, with a deep and passionate love in his eyes.  Him:  Loki.  The man- the god- that she had to push away._

I am leaving.  Let me.  Do not follow me, do not search for me.  No one will tell you of my whereabouts, so don’t bother asking.  _She stared forward blankly at him_ and _she closed her eyes, bracing herself._ For your own sake, Loki: you do not love me.

_He advanced on her, striding into the room and straight in front of her, reaching out in an attempt to hold her, but she backed away.  He stood there, eyes wide and mouth open, his hands outstretched absently._

No _. He whispered._  I cannot do that, Jane.  I love you.  _There was nothing she could do but shake her head._

Goodbye.

 _And he broke.  The god of mischief let love break him, and now here he stood, blubbering and begging.  Because he let himself love._ How stupid _, was all he could think,_ to believe that I could have the luxury of love.  So, so, _so_ stupid _.  But he had loved, and he had to now hurt._

_“Jane.” Loki whispered, the tears racing down his face and slapping the ground.  “Please.  You can’t do this to me.  You just… can’t.  Just… just come back here.  Please, we can… we can sort this out.  I’m begging you.”  On the last few words, his voice broke in anguish, and he could watch the pain flit across her strong, perfect face, a film coating her distant, beautiful brown eyes._

_She reached out to his extended hands, placing her fingertips on his familiarly.  A weak smile fell on her lips and she looked with great sadness at him, an obvious love in her eyes._

_“I know.” She said bluntly, shaking her head.  “But I can’t.”_

_“You can.  Always.  There’s always a way.  Trust me, I know.  I was lost, desperately, for the longest time.  I didn’t know who I was, what I was doing, why.  And then, you came and… everything changed.  You- you’re the greatest thing that ever happened to me.  You must know this.”  He twisted his hand so his fingers tips slipped from Jane’s and fell into perfect place between her fingers, using the old new-found grip to draw her in closer.  He settled to have her close to him, hands pressed against his lightly clothed chest.  He watched her with a ravage intensity, so it was difficult to miss her chewing on her words and attempting to free herself from the bonds that his hands were.  So she looked deep into his eyes and let him watch any expression leak from them and become nothing more than empty._

_“Of course, Loki.  You are to me, as well.  And I cannot thank you enough.”  Her every syllable was robotic and distant, as though she could not bring herself to care for the cold man turned warm lover in front of her. The lover she created. But with every movement of her rounded pink lips, it was clear that every word was forced and practiced.  Refusing to look away from his eyes, she began to slip hers fingers out of his grasp, easing out of his loving grip._

_But he did not let her.  He snatched her back and held her close, his hands travelling fast up from her wrists to grasp her head with quiet, delicate rage.  
“No, _ you don’t understand. _There is nothing in this world- not here, not in the nine realms, not even Valhalla- which is capable of repaying you.   You… you let me love you.  Which, if the past is any evidence, is a_ very _bad thing to do.”  He said it with a small chuckle, reminiscently sad.  “But I cannot, ever, say how much I needed you, still and just… just how much you mean to me, Jane.  I am unable even to form it into words.”  Loki shook against his will, whether it was with rage or pain, he did not know.  But his shoulders shook and despite his tears, he could see Jane perfectly.  So he could watch as Jane removed herself lithely from his grasp and raised her chin, cold brown eyes staring back into his glittering emerald ones.  His fingers curved around her face, touching her delicately, his gaze unwavering and fierce._

_“I think it would be easier if you left it that way.  You owe me nothing, nor I you.  Revert back to how you were, before you let me in.  I am nothing to you.”  The rehearsed nature of her words was so bitterly obvious, making it a pill impossible to swallow._

_It was as if she had thrown a ton brick straight into Loki’s chest.  He was winded.  Every detail around him was enhanced and seemed to be suddenly thrown out of proportion, as though the stopping of time somehow resulted in the worldly features being thrown out of whack._

_“What?” he gasped, a venom filling his veins.  “Revert back to how I used to be?  Are you mad, Jane? You are everything to me!  Please, tell me you are joking, for I could certainly use a laugh.  Let it be a joke.  Please, tell me it is.”  He stared at her briefly before a heat filled him up to his eyes, searching for any form of responsiveness from the woman he loved so.  But… nothing.  And he snapped.  “_ TELL ME!!” _he screamed, the harsh sound bouncing off the walls._   “Are you mad, woman?  Have you lost your mind?!  _Do you not remember the monster I was before you found me?  You know what I am capable of!  You know the blood on my hands, or should I remind you?   It didn’t seem to matter before, so I am mighty curious as to why it might now!”_

_A pity flitted behind her eyes and she shook her head again, as if trying to deny she ever knew anything._

_Loki’s chest heaved._

_“It doesn’t.”_

_“Then what is it?  Is it because of Thor?  That oaf?  Because I can deal with that.  I can deal with losing him.  But not you.  Not you.”_

_She faltered obviously over the question, her lips attempting to form words but not a sound came past them._

_“Loki, I have to go.”_

_But his hands refused to move, grasping her face steadily, angrily.   But all of sudden, her words were snapping through the air and biting Loki’s ears._

_“Loki, if you love me, you will let me go.  You will let me, go: you will not come after me, you will not ask of my whereabouts, you will not come to find me, you will forget about me, understand?  If you love me, you will forget about me.”_

_Loki’s hands dropped immediately from her face as if stung and hung limply at his sides, his brow knitting together and eyes glazed over, mouth gaping.  He could not speak, simply watching brokenly as she gave him one last hard stare before sweeping out of the room, the breathy fabric whispering as the door eased closed behind her, leaving Loki to fall to his knees and scream._

_The birds outside chirped, the leaves on the green and gold trees rustled peacefully and the ocean breathed quietly in the distance as the sinking sun painted Asgard a perfect red gold.  The realm continued to go on, it never stopped it beauty.  But for Loki, all that was over.  His life no longer held the shimmer that made his world beautiful, the birds no longer sang and a forever agony took its place._

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

“What do you need, Prince Loki?”  Heimdall called absently, facing the open golden mouth of the Bifrost.  It looked out upon the beauty of the realms and several galaxies that lay glimmering and winking in front of them. 

Loki strolled up behind Heimdall, his hands behind his back, chin up.  He had found his strength just outside the round gold structure, so he presented nicely now in his semi-formal wear, his worn leather jacket shining handsomely in the soft colour of the Bifrost. 

“Just visiting, Heimdall.” He replied, the sarcasm in his voice just hardly masked.  Heimdall gave a small chuckle as he turned his head slightly to face Loki, who was standing beside the AEsir now.

“You never _just_ visit, Loki.”

Loki flashed an insincere smile up at Heimdall.

“You got me.”  he said, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.  Heimdall reverted to his usual serious state and continued to stare forwards at the expanse of stars in front of him.

“You have not come to visit me in a long time.”

Loki sighed

“You are right.”

“I still remember this day all those years ago.” Heimdall said as if it were a casual thought.  Loki flinched, immediately knowing what he was talking of.  “She had demanded my utmost secrecy, but I could not watch her fade without either of you knowing.”

“And I know Thor thanks your choice most thoroughly.  She meant a lot to that oaf.”  Loki responded bitterly, looking out at the galaxies like Heimdall, though he could see none of it.

“Yes, I do imagine she did.  Though maybe not nearly as much as she did to you, Loki.”   Loki’s head snapped around and stared openly at the gate keeper.

“I’m sorry?” he snapped.

“I have been watching the child that she died giving birth to, and though he did seem the most ordinary child, he exuded a likeness to you.  For a while I had supposed that perhaps the child was purely of Midgard, but that was before, about three years ago and around the time you stopped visiting, that the child did something… bizarre.”  Heimdall said al of it casually, as though what he said was general knowledge.

“What are you proposing Heimdall?” Loki asked, narrowing his eyes with anticipation.

“It is quietly known through the upper ranks of Asgard that the affections of Jane was sought after by more than just Thor.  And the abruptness of her leave from both this realm and that of the living was and is a mystery to us all, as well as her bizarre pregnancy.  But I believe that, knowing the woman was not a disloyal being and one of great honour, and was in great distress when leaving by way of this portal,”  Loki glanced up at him, questioning “that she did not leave willingly.”

“Heimdall, I am in no mood for riddles.  Please, tell me what it is you know.”

“Alright.  The child, at first glance, is nothing beyond the realm of Midgard.  But as I have watched the boy grow into his adolescence, it became clear.  He is not one completely of Midgard.  AEsir blood runs through his veins quite noticeably.”  Loki clenched his teeth.  “But upon no closer inspection, he is clearly that of, none other than, frost giant blood.”

Silence.  The world froze around Loki as he took in Heimdalls words and he did not show the ringing in his ears or the choking feeling in his throat.  He stood there, pale lips parted in shock, eyes wide and dry, until he slowly turned to face the galaxies.  They all stood out anew to him now, details precise and outlandish.

“Loki, I know what that woman was to you, and you to her.”  Heimdall said softly.

“What are you telling me Heimdall.” Loki choked out dully.

“I am telling you, my prince, that Jane was very much loyal: to you.   Loki, the child known as Hamish, is of yours and Jane’s blood.  In short, you have a son.  A son who is extraordinarily fluent in AEsir magic, your characteristics and Jane’s love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please tell me what you think!!!


	5. My, My, My

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Dark World/Reichenbach  
> At the hands of a wild and emotion centered mind, I bring you a tumblr inspired story about the characters I have formed a great bond with: Sherlock, John and Loki.  
> John and Sherlock have married and are in love when they decide to adopt a little boy whose mother died in labour and whose father is unknown. They bring him up with love and adoration when Hamish begins to show signs of interesting abilities. It is not long before they find out who Hamish's real father is, and what had happened to cause it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a making of my two major ships: Lokane and Johnlock. I am playing Loki as more of a broken soul though, and I m sorry for any OOC moments. Hamish is my 'own' character i suppose you could say, though really he is tumblrs child.

Hamish awoke with a start, shooting upwards into a sitting position, his eyes seeing nothing in the dark of his room as they adjusted lazily.  Slowly the outlines of the familiar space came into sight with the aid of the street lamp’s light leaking in through the curtains edges, but it did not to quell the anxious stuttering in his chest. 

He had fallen asleep like any other day when the magic that resided in him flared up independently.  It had been rather sudden when it reared up, as he was in the middle of an average forgetful dream when everything… lit up.  Like fireworks in his body, glancing from all corners of his brain; those he knew of and those he didn’t.  He could feel, even whilst unconscious, a new and brilliant surge of magic coursing through him, introducing itself to him with an air of majesty and awakened exuberance.  It hummed and purred, cracked and sparkling intensely, vibrating every hair and pore in his body.  It pressed him down, even as his mind fought against it; the magic would not allow him to wake, making him watch and feel the luminous spectacle.   His mind fought against the unnatural surprise entity and with him being of the sleeping state, his body refused calm down, instead taking up fruitless arms against the power.  He could feel his body writhing against it, but his mind could not find a foot hold against it.   At last he could feel it let up- though it could have truthfully lasted only a dozen or so seconds- and it winked at him before dissipating into something reminiscent of god like power.

His chest was heaving and eyes wide, fingers clenching the sheets that he lay tangled in.  The energy lingered in his chest, every nerve tingling and on edge.  He was not particularly worried or alarmed about the sudden appearance, as it is kind of expected when one holds such unpredictable anilities, but his deductive mind could not stop from trying to figure out what had caused it.  But it was not just the sudden vicious flare of magic that had Hamish puzzling.  A handful of words was fading slowly from his brain, as though they were an after effect of the magic light show.  _‘Loki… you have a son…’_ What the hell did that mean?  Really, it was obvious but

“What the _actual Hell_?!” he spat loudly.   Hamish paused, stunned that his thoughts had left his tongue.  But he did not have long to ponder on it, for he could hear his parents outside his room and it was not long before the door was opening and John’s thoughtfully concerned face was peering into the room, soft light from the hall pouring into the room.

“Are you okay, Hamish?”  His brow was weakly knit together and sleep was obvious in his eyes.  Behind him in the hall was Sherlock, his blue house coat thrown on messily, his arms crossed and expression sour. 

 “John, I am telling you, people make sounds in their sleep.  This should not be a shock.” He snapped quietly, an argument that had obviously been continued from a minute before.

“Yes, I realize that Sherlock, but not like _that.”_ John responded snippily, turning his head to look at his husband.

“People have nightmares, John.  This is not news.”

“Yes _people_ have nightmares, I am very well aware of that fact, Sherlock.   But your _son_ is having one of them _.  Show some compassion.”_

“Its bloody 2am, John!”

“That never seemed to matter before.”

“Yes, well that was before we were-”

“What did you mean people don’t make sounds ‘like that’?”

Hamish’s parents looked back round to their sons inquiry, who was still upright and obviously alarmed, a piqued yet amused interest in their little spat.  John looked down at his feet, his hand subconsciously grabbing the doorframe before he responded. 

“It was like you were in pain of sorts, Hamish.  It just didn’t sound… right.”

“So nothing truly… abnormal?”

Sherlock came to attention at that, standing up straight and the sleep leaving his eyes immediately.

“What do you mean, Hamish?” he demanded, pushing the door open lightly and standing beside John, his gaze fierce and caring. 

Hamish loved both his dads dearly and honestly, equally.  But he could never deny that it was he and Sherlock who were closest.  He constantly found himself longing for the moments when he could open up to his Da, knowing he knew just exactly what he was going through, and that he could count on him for the truth with no padding.  Which was exactly what Hamish admired in a person.  He also appreciated the fact that his Da was not the same person at home then he was at work.  It was as if he were parallel from his self when he was at home, for he was loving and kind and gentle the moment his mind found itself in 221B.  But when he was on a scene, all of that dissipated, leaving nothing but his sharp mind, jagged wit and shield.

He found himself worrying about John, though, knowing the things that haunted him, and how they affected his daily life.  He could see them painted on his face and in his soul.  Really, his Da had never told him of Afghanistan, let alone that he had been in the war, but Hamish had known.  From the moment that Hamish was able to form a coherent thought and articulate it, he had told his Pa ‘No worry.  We’re here.  We’re not to leave you.  ‘love you, Papa.  Forget the war.’ 

It was because of this that he found himself at battle: he wanted to tell his Da but didn’t want to unload the burden on his Pa, who was bound to worry over it sick.

“Oh it was just…” he took a breath, collecting himself.  “Nothing.  It was nothing, Da.”

He almost cracked a smile while he watched his Da roll his eyes and lean forwards.  Of course he saw through that.

“Please.” He objected.  Hamish knew he would see right through it, and that he would not give it up until he was certain what he had was the truth. “What was it?”

Hamish ducked his head a bit before looking back up, biting his lip.

“It was as if… something was exploding.  It was everywhere in my head.  One moment I was sleeping, dreaming typical nonsense and it caught me unawares, cracking and snapping everywhere.  Got me in places I didn’t even know existed.   Its power was exponential and it wouldn’t let me go.  As though it had me strapped down into the dream.”

Sherlock was staring at him quizzically, obviously not understanding this early in the morning what Hamish was describing.

“Magic.  The Magic, Da.”

He watched as Sherlock’s face cleared and John’s clouded.

“Hamish,” his Pa started.  But he didn’t get that chance to finish that open ended thought, because Hamish stared him down, his green eyes locking on Johns.

“I don’t want you to worry.  It’s all fine.  Just go back to bed, okay?”  He could see his Pa swallow and nod before backing out of the hallway, his hand on Sherlock’s arm.

“Okay son.  Sleep well.”  Sherlock threw one more look to his son before drawing the door shut behind him.

Hamish didn’t sleep again that night.  Instead he leaned up against the wall and let his head rest against it, staring out the window with the curtain drawn open, looking out at the once clear inky night sky,  the stars twinkling and smiling, feeling the mystical embers floating invisibly around him, kissing his nose and fingers.  He sat there questioning what the magical awakening was, what it meant.   But most importantly, he questioned _why_ he could feel it.

~~~~

* * *

 

 

 

A few dozen kilometers away and minutes previously, a torrent of light and energy touched down outstandingly in a field before it receded and left a runic pattern on the battered ground and a man crouched down in the heart of it, long sleek black hair pulled away from his handsome angular face and piercing green eyes.  He stooped there, eyes scanning his whereabouts with a practiced air, looking for any sign of trouble.  Once sure of the open fields safety he stood up and readjusted his clothing, which consisted of a short leather jacket over a white button down and everyday black trousers, business shoes on his feet.  With that, he brought his shoulders back and advanced towards the sprawling city a mere kilometer away.

“Prince Loki, are you sure you wish to do this?” Heimdall questioned as Loki strode once more into the Bifrost. 

He had left abruptly after Heimdall had informed him of the child, rushing to his chambers and fretting over choices, over what to do.  He paced up and down the room as the sun rose in the sky, bleeding into the room warmly.  He had found himself gathering the materials and means for survival with a plan to travel to Midgard in search of the child with intention to take him, the last fragment of his love that had lasted.   Vanishing his Asgardian clothing into a magical form of storage along with weapons of choice, he magicked on Midgardian apparel he had observed while he was there.

It had been only few hours before he was back to the Bifrost and ready to leave, knowing full well that Heimdall knew already of his plans.

“Yes Heimdall, I am.  I need to do this.” He declared, a new found strength circulating through his veins.  “Let me.”  He demanded, letting his gaze pin the guard down.

“Of course I will let you, Loki.  Why should I not?  It is about time you got out.”

Loki rolled his eyes and stepped up to the gate, readying himself for the journey.  But he heard no clink of metal from behind him.

“So get on with it then, Heimdall.” He snapped.

“I shall, my prince.  But first, there is some information I believe that could be of use to you.”

“Truly?  And what would that be?”

“It would be that before Jane gave birth to your son, she lived with her assistant and friend, Darcy Lewis.”  As he said this, the front of the Bifrost evolved to show a section of Midgard that he knew to be London.  The view spun and stretched until it slowed to show a stretch of quaint flats, centering on a green one with white trim, the number 98 on the front.  “I watched that before she left the world, she left the woman with several letters.  I suggest you seek her out, she may be of help to you.

“Secondly, the child is beyond intelligent for his age.  I also believe that you will have no problem recognizing him, for he holds much alikeness to you.”

“Excellent.”  Loki responded dryly.  “Let us get on with this.” 

“You must realize, Loki, that it will be my duty to tell your brother where you have gone to, though I will leave the reason as to why for you to tell.”

“Of course.” He bit out.

Behind him Heimdall inserted the sword and started the contraption until it began the starting of the bridge.

“Find the woman named Darcy, confide in her.  I wish you luck, Prince Loki.”

And with that, the Bifrost took him and he shot purposefully towards the realm of Midgard.

* * *

 

_*I’ve started playing around with my writing styles.  If you find something off with it, just let me know.  I’ll change it stat.*_

“Ian!” Darcy squeaked as Ian tickled her sides mercilessly. “Stop that!  I’m supposed to be sad!”

“Well then, don’t be!” he replied cheekily, bending down and pressing a kiss to her lips.  She kissed him back eagerly, her hands entwining in his hair, making him fall back down.

“Eugh!  You’re squishing me!”

“But you’re just so squish-able.  You are my squishy.” Ian joked, kissing her full mouth again.  She giggled against his lips before pushing him away.

“But seriously.  This is a serious day.  Have some respect.”  She admonished in the most Darcy-esque way.

“Ah, fine.” He conceded, rolling out of bed.  “I’m going to make coffee.”

“Excellent idea.”  She said, stretching and pulling the covers back over her head.

“Hey!  None of that!  You’re coming with!”  Ian retorted, grabbing the comforter and tearing it away and exited the room with it, leaving Darcy to squeal and moan before finally rolling out of bed herself and walking into the kitchen, putting on her glasses, tank top and pajama bottoms askew. 

“Ugh, really?” she complained, picking the blanket off the floor.

“Really.  C’mon, Darcy.  It’s been thirteen years and now it 10am.   Let’s get on with it”

“Exactly. It’s been thirteen years and now it is far too late to do anything productive on a Saturday. So I get to mope around for a day.”  Darcy responded, wrapping the blanket around herself and plopping down onto the couch as she watched Ian make the coffee.

“I guess.” He said as he poured the coffee into cups.  “But I still feel like you should do something today.”

“Like eat chocolate?  Watch ‘Rise Of The Guardians’?”

“Nooo…” he said as he handed a cup to Darcy, making her uncover her hands from the pile of fabric.  “I mean something like-”

“Cuddling?” Darcy haggled cutely, reaching out and pulling him down, just missing sloshing coffee everywhere.

“Watch it baby!”

“No.” she said, pulling him back in for another kiss, the doorbell interrupting them rudely.  Ian groaned, refusing to leave the kiss. 

“You should go get that.”  Darcy breathed against his lips.

“I don’t wanna.” He whined, making Darcy push away.

“Please?  For me?” she begged.  “My _best friend_ died today, like, forever not so long ago.”

“Fiiine.” He gave in, untangling himself and putting his mug on the coffee table.  “This better be worth it though.  Seriously,” he complained as he walked to the door “who calls this bloody early in the morning?”

“Just open the damn door Ian.”  Darcy laughed. 

And so he did.

“Hi, can I help you?” he questioned, looking the bizarre stranger from head to toe.

“Yes, I believe you can.” The man said smoothly, his accent unknown and easy to listen to.  “I am looking for Darcy Lewis.  I was informed that I could find her here.”

“Yeah?  My name?” she called out, craning her neck in an attempt to see the stranger.  “Come on in!  I hope you don’t mind a disaster zone, because you’re about to step into one.”  

Ian motioned to the man and allowed him to step inside.

“Thank you.”  He turned on Darcy and began to speak though she heard none of it as she was too busy taking him in wide eyes; all- in her opinion- six plus perfect gorgeous feet of lean dark sex.

“Are you her?” the stranger asked, his green eyes looking into hers fiercely.

“Sorry, I was distracted by your beauty.” She stopped and smiled amusedly when Ian scoffed by the door.  “What was that?”

“Are you indeed Darcy Lewis, friend of-” the man paused as if choked briefly before he collected himself and went on.  “of the late Jane Foster?”

The smile dropped off Darcy’s face immediately and she glanced down at her coffee.

“Ummm… yeah.  You knew her?”

The man gave a bizarre little laugh.  “Yes.  Yes I did.”

Darcy nodded solemnly before taking an awkward sip of coffee.  The stranger went on staring at her, brow furrowed and sad.  Behind him, Ian stepped forward.

“Hey mate, what did you say your name was?”

The man drew himself up and turned around to face him.  More like look down to him.

“I didn’t.” he replied.  “I am Loki, of Asgard.”

“Oh my shit!” Darcy gasped, plunking her coffee down on the little table and getting up, still wrapped in the blanket.  “You have _got_ to be joking!”

“I have not for a long time, my lady.” Loki said plainly, turning back around to face her.  “But it is an honour to meet you, finally.”  He gently took her hand and kissed it delicately, summoning his atrophied manners.

“Wait,” Ian started, stepping towards the giggling Darcy and Norse God.  “You’re Loki, as in the God of Mischief who completely obliterated New York all those years ago?” 

“Ah.  I see your people still remember that then.  Do not fret.  I have grown out of my world domination.  I found myself rather… compromised since the fact.” He answered with a solemn nod of his head.

“I would hope so.  That was a real dick move.”

“Ian!”  Darcy scolded, hitting her husband despite the intrigued expression on their guests face, obviously not understanding the crude term.  “Look at the poor man.  I mean God, er-”

“Man is just fine, Lady Darcy.”

“Oh.  Okay then.  Umm, would you like some coffee?”

“It would be a pleasure, thank you.”

Darcy went and grabbed a cup from the cabinet and plunked it down on the counter before jiggling the coffee pot from it lock. 

“Sugar, cream?”

“Whatever you see fit.”

Pouring a pinch of cream in the cup before filling it up with coffee she brought it over to him where he accepted it and took a polite sip.

“Thank you.  Quite delicious.”  He said dully.  Darcy stood there awkwardly, not sure what to do.

“So, Loki.” Ian said, his hands patting his thighs sub consciously, breaking the silence.  “If you’re not here for world domination, then what are you here for?”

Ducking his head Loki took in a sharp breath.

“Lady Darcy, what do you know of Jane’s pregnancy?”

Darcy started at that, jumping a little and eyes shooting wide.  “Crap, how do you know about that?”  Darcy yelped.  “I swear, I didn’t say anything!”  She said to no one in particular.

“Heimdall did.  He informed us of her death those years ago, of course including the cause of it.”  He said coldly.

“Heimdall… he’s the gate guy, right?”

Loki heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes at her.  “Yes.  He is the ‘gate guy’ as you put it so eloquently.  He is the guard of the Bifrost and is all seeing, all knowing.  Though he is a god of honour, and a man of word.  Unfortunately for him, he broke that silent agreement when he told Thor and me of her departure from the realm of the living.  And recently when he-”  he stopped abruptly, his throat squeezing shut and allowing no breath, leaving him to gasp painfully as a vicious agony of longing ripped through him.

“When he… what?”  Darcy pressed obliviously.  Loki reached back behind him, his hand finding the back of the couch, allowing him to lean back against it.  “Hey, are you okay?”

“I believe it may be difficult for your partner here to believe, but I do have feelings and at times they can be rather overpowering.  Forgive me.”

“Totally.”  Darcy rushed.   “So, what were you saying?”

“I believe I asked a question you have to answer, actually.”

“Oh!  Yeah!  Ummm… well, I guess the cats out of the bag now.  Uh, she came to me when she was a month pregnant.  Wouldn’t tell me squat.  I kept bugging her about her ‘wild times with Thor’ but she always just got really peeved.  Weird, right?  I didn’t really get why she would abandon him like that.  Anyways, around her sixth month she was always really cold, could never warm up.  Like ever.  Took her to the hospital and everything but they couldn’t find what was wrong with her.” 

Loki’s brow knit together deeply and he pursed his lips, making Darcy stop for moment when she saw it, puzzled at his expression.  The silence filled the room again until Loki locked his eyes with hers and lifted his eyebrows up, making her clear her throat and readjust her glasses. 

“Middle of the seventh month she was up all the time writing letters for various people, including me.   Then near the end of it all it was the one day I went off to a friends and when I came back she…  She was gone.  She didn’t even phone me to say she was giving birth let alone dying, for god’s sake!  Like, I guess giving birth,” Ian began to get uncomfortable and began fidgeting in the background, causing Darcy to shush him “to a baby God would take its toll on you but like really?!  She couldn’t have fecking called me?”  She exhaled sharply and threw a distasteful look to Ian before continuing. 

“And then you know those letters I was talking about?  Well the one she left me was supposed to be all consoling, saying everything was just fine and blah blah blah, carry on, tell Eric, don’t tell Thor whatever I do, she doesn’t want the brothers fighting- whatever the hell that means- and all kinds of bullcrap.  Oh, and that she didn’t want whoever adopted her little boy to know who she was for some weird reason.  Craziest part is that the little kid was adopted by the famous Sherlock Holmes and his gay lover John Watson.  I see them every now and again, great people really, Sherlock’s a bit much though.  He’s dead lucky he has John.  But you know what?  The little guy looks nothing like Thor!  I thought he would have those long gold flowing locks of his, but his hair is dead black.  Prettiest Green eyes too, super smart.  Must get that from Jane’s side. ”

“Honey?”  Ian called out quietly, his head inclined forwards.

“Yeah?”  Darcy said, snapping out of her rant.

“You’re rambling.”

“Tough luck!  He asked for it.  Besides, he’s and Ass-sir or whatever.  He can keep up with it.”

“It is AEsir.  But I’m not an Aesir, I should have you know.”  Loki informed them.

“What?” Darcy gasped, her turn for her forehead to scrunch up.

“I am a Frost Giant.”  He managed to bite out.  “I was taken from Jotunheim at early age and, in your terms, brainwashed to hate my race.  In reality, I am not even related to Thor.”

“Holy mother of pearl.”  Darcy whispered, staring openly at Loki.  “But then what are you and Thor in not-reality then?”

Loki sighed before responding.  “I still consider him my brother, I would do anything to save him.  But I doubt that he will reciprocate those feelings in a while.”

“And why is that?”  Darcy questioned, leaning in.

“Because the child is not an Aesir.  He is my son.”

 

*Sorry to end it like this, kind of crappy I know.  But it needs a more solid transition then another section in a chaper.  Thank you so much for reading.  Much Love*

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Please tell me what you think!!


	6. The God of Terrible Things

_*_ min kjæreste _means ‘my dearest’_

Kjære _means_ ‘dear’, similar to ‘darling’

 

 

“I have a box of things that she left, including the letters.  Most of them have some weird kind of, I don’t know, ancient language on the front though.  I can’t tell what they say.”  Darcy called out from her bedroom, where she was getting the said box.   Loki scoffed and rolled his eyes, some of his strength returning.

“Of course not.”  He muttered

“Hey!” Ian started, clearly offended.  “Be nice, you hear me?”

Loki sighed and rolled his head to look at the man, a presumptuous look on his face. 

“Of course I can hear you.  Despite being of a different realm and higher civilization, as well as what I would imagine you might call ‘alien’, I do so happen to have ears that function, mortal.”  He smirked as Ian floundered for words, but came up with nothing and he turned back to face the wall he was staring at previously.

“My meaning, before you so rudely interrupted me, was that she could not possibly read it.  Especially if she bore no training in the field of historical languages, specifically in Nordic.”

“And Jane did, then?”  Darcy asked, walking out of her room his the box propped up in front of her.  She slid it onto the counter that Loki leaned on, making him move away and stand up properly. She refused to look at him, ever since he had announced his true connection to Jane.

He froze, though no one would have noticed, being rolled up in their own worlds, the way they are.  But he did, and if anyone cared to pay attention would see how much the mention of Jane hurt him.   He inhaled sharply, straightening up again.  

“Yes.  She did.  I taught her.”  He told them, only intriguing them further, not that they cared much.  No one truly did.  No one cared to listen, to understand.  But if they did, truly care, like no one did, they would see the snapping, breaking, and cracking that laid within him, how much it ached Loki: he had lost so much.  They would be touched by the searing fire that tore through his veins, and the pitch ocean that crazed through his mind in fits of sorrow if they even dared to care.   He would never dare show himself to anyone, ever.

And they were asking about Jane now, and what had happened to her, but they didn’t truly care.

But if they did, they would be able to see that what they asked brought on memories, vivid, beautiful and perfect.  And painful.

“No, no.  You’re still doing it wrong.”  Loki scolded, his eyes twinkling as Jane huffed irately. 

* * *

 

“How?  I’m doing _exactly_ what you’re telling me to do!  How is it wrong?!”  she shot back, outraged as she sat there, shaking angrily.   

He smiled to himself, loving how passionate she was about the lesson.  He loved her fury, how it sparked in her eyes and radiated from her skin, exuding from her pores.  He loved to see her this way.  It reminded him of himself; the burning enthusiasm to learn, to achieve, to know.  He chuckled and pointed to the line they were working on.

“You’re mixing up the vowels.  It puts a completely different meaning on it.”

“How the hell do you mix up vowels?!  That’s… I...” she sputtered, trying to grasp her words.  He laughed openly and she turned on him, eyes burning.

“What?!” she snapped, making his laughter die down.  He pursed his lips and cleared his throat, looking her straight in the eyes. 

“Jane.”  He started, seriously. 

“Yes?” she said sharply, eyes narrowing.  Loki reached across to her hand, grasping it under his large hand.  Drawing his eyes brows up, he took in a breath.

“You are right.”  Jane stood up abruptly, lips parted and Loki was almost distracted by it, but he pulled himself together, amused by her stunned silence as she looked down at him.  He smirked at her before saying “You’ve been doing it right along, min kjæreste.   You’re perfect at it.”

Jane gasped, infuriated.   Snatching her hand away she grabbed a book that laid close on the table and reached over, hitting him with it while he laughed breathlessly.

“You _bastard!_    How could you?!” she roared adorably.  Loki could feel his heart jump with elation and he grabbed the book from her easily, putting it back down quickly and seizing her wrists before she had a chance to assault him further.  She shook and glared at him, lips pursed.

She was beautiful.  He loved it, incredibly so. 

“Easily.”  He said.  And with that, he pulled the standing woman down towards him and kissed her.  He could feel her fighting the urge to stay mad at him, but she melted against his touch and gave in, leaning into it, kissing him back. 

He pulled away subtly and let go of her hands, making her lose her balance slightly.  She looked at him questioningly until he spoke.   
“We had better get back to work.  Wouldn’t want Thor to think I’m not teaching you anything.” He told her, winking.

Jane blushed and put her hands to backs of her thighs, tucking her skirts back up so she could sit down again.

“Yes, of course.  Don’t want him to think there is anything strange going on, do we?” she joined in, leaning towards him cheekily. 

“Precisely.” He replied, tapping the tip of her nose with a long finger.  They grinned at each other childishly before Jane cleared her throat and directed her attention back to the book in front of her, pointing to a line and writing it down, looking to Loki for his approval before reciting it out loud.  Except this was a book that Loki had written.

“And do you know what you have just recited, kjære?” he asked expectantly.

“Why, of course I do, my Prince.” she replied with an air of danger.

“And just what did you say?”

“ ‘My King,’ ” she recited. “ ‘I have waited for you, longed for you.  And now, I beg for you.’ ”

His eyes gleamed and he leaned towards her.

“And?”

“And,” she said standing up again and closing the space between them. She stood in front of him where he sat now, two feet away.  He turned to face her, a dangerous smirk on his face as she parted her lips again, leaned down and balancing herself with a hand on the table, a foot from his face.  “ ‘I am yours.’ ”

His hands were around her waist and pulling her down onto his lap, his lips capturing hers passionately, meshing perfectly and beautifully together.  Every touch sent a shock through Loki, making him crave more, making him want to tell her

“No.” he said abruptly, stopping Jane, her hand snaking up his tunic. 

“What?” she gasped quietly, pulling away and looking him in his bright emerald eyes.

“No.” he repeated.  “I am _yours, min kjæreste.”_

* * *

 

“Hey, man…  Um.  Are you okay?”  It was Ian, breaking through.  Loki started, gasping slightly, noticing his eyes were watery. 

He stuttered, not quite able to find words.  This was incredibly strange for him; that his façade was breaking.  He swallowed, finally finding something of his voice.  
“I… I don’t know.”  He told Ian. 

Darcy was still at the box, unpacking it, refusing to look at Loki, or really even acknowledge him at the moment.  So Loki walked up to her and put his hand on her arm.  She flinched away, her gaze following up from the hand on her skin to, at last for the first time since Loki had mentioned him and Jane, she looked at him straight on.  Her gaze was steely and guarded, as though he had killed a friend.  Well, he supposed, he had.  That caught in his throat, making him choke on it.

“Darcy.” He managed to get out.

“What?” she snapped.  That bit at Loki, as he made the connection, realizing where Jane got that from.

“Darcy, I want you to know that I…” It was getting difficult for Loki.  He had not truly let himself go in a long while, and it was building up now in his chest.  And that made him mad.  That he was going to let go in the midst of Midgardians who had no appreciation or respect for him whatsoever.  It made him mad that he was so weak.  And it made him mad that Jane was dead, and that they hated him for it.

“Darcy, I loved Jane.  I could have loved no one more than I did that woman.  Not my brother, not even Frigga.”

“I don’t see how that makes a difference.  You never treated any of them like you did.”  Darcy chewed out.

His grip tightened and she winced under the pressure, making Ian step forward. 

“I loved her more than I love life itself.  I would have given my last _breath_ for her.” His voice was heated and escalating as he found ground to push off of.  “I would have _died_ for her to live, and be happy.  I didn’t _want her to die,_ Darcy!  I didn’t _want_ her to _leave_!” 

His breath was coming short now, and his speech came untangled and casual as is possible the midst of sorrowful anger, and words he had heard Jane speak in times of frustration came through and he was speaking through nothing but the strings of his heart now. 

“But she walked through that door, and she told me to not follow, to let her go, _if I loved her_ , that I would _let her go_.  She may as well have asked me to stop breathing, for all it has done to me.  And I would have, if she had.

“I screamed when she left. I wept for days when Heimdall told me she no longer blessed the air with her breath.     I have never found a _day_ where I have not mourned for the woman I loved more than the stars above me.  There is nothing I crave like the touch of her skin,      the gaze of her eyes,      the sound of her laughter.           And there is nothing I would not have given to make her comfortable, to be there with her,      and raised our son.       I wish-” his voice broke, and the tears he feared were bounding down his face.  “I wish I could have made her warm while our child- the child of my frozen blood- made her so cold.

“I long for the knowledge that this was what she wanted, but I know that is not true!  She told me so one day, long before any of this had happened.       She left knowing she would die,      and I did not! She told me fuck all,     she made me promise to leave her be,       because she was afraid that our love would tear apart that of mine and Thor’s.

“Darcy, I loved her!  I love nothing more than her existence, so don’t you dare fucking tell me that none of what I feel makes any difference!  Because it _tears_ me _apart_ every day, and I have to live with it, all of it.  I have live without my other half.  And nothing hurts more than that!      Nothing hurts like that.”

He let go and stepped away, raw and open.  Darcy could do nothing but stand there in the wake of his powerful revelation, eyes wide and breath hardly there.

He turned away from them, walking a few paces with his back to them, hands knotted in his hair, eyes glazed over, body shaking.

At last he turned back to them, facing them on weak legs and soft voice.

“So, I hope you can understand why I wish to be able to see my son, Lady Darcy.  And I hope you may be capable of forgiving me for my… outburst.” He said simply, hands gesturing towards her quietly.

Her mouth hung open as she gaped at the God of Mischief standing there as nothing more than a man stripped of all that humanity saw him for.  He was now a simple man driven by the bitter sting of love lost.  Her brow was knit together as her own eyes welled with tears and she found herself striding towards Loki and grabbing him into a hug, disregarding how small she was against him.

“Oh, Loki.  Oh, holy Hell, I am so sorry.”

“Whatever for, Lady Darcy?”  he asked, completely unsure of how to react to the unforeseen embrace.   But by the counter in which they had just been, Ian made eye contact with Loki, gesturing him to hug back.  And so he did, and he melted into the comforting grip, feeling himself recover marginally.  Loki fell into it a bit, returning it with emotion.

“I had no idea.” She whispered.

He chuckled slightly at that.  “How could you have?  I have never been quite the image of soft, now have I?”

She looked up at him.  “Is this how you usually are?” she asked.

“No.  It is not… normal for me.”

“Well then... Why?  You don’t really know us.”  She said it as a question.

“Because… I’m tired, I suppose.  Of it all.”

She nodded and said nothing, but it meant everything.  Loki dipped his head down, his forehead finding shelter on her shoulder, and he let a wave of pain roll through him.  She held him tighter.  The God of Mischief, who had killed thousands of people, deceived for personal gain and pleasure, laughed at pain.  She held the hurt, pained and lost god in her arms, and he whispered in a wavering voice as he hid in her comfort.

“I miss her, Darcy.  Holy Gods, I miss her.”

 


	7. New Story

“Hey, Sherlock?”  

“What is it, love?”

“That was Darcy on the phone.”

Sherlock didn’t look up, though his eyes flickered up to Johns, who stood in the kitchen doorway, his cell phone in hand as he clicked it off.   Sherlock was bent over his microscope, shirt sleeves rolled up as he pored over a piece of evidence for his latest case.  He smiled as he looked at his husband briefly before reverting his eyes back to his task.

“And what of it?” 

John shifted his weight, leaning against the door frame and crossing his arms.

“She was hoping to come by sometime and see Hamish, or meet us up somewhere.”

“And?” Sherlock pressed, twisting a knob on the microscope.

“And what?” John asked innocently, his non-existent talent of lying showing.

“John, I know you.  When are we seeing her?” 

John chuckled and shook his head.  “I told her tomorrow afternoon, at Speedy’s.  Turns out she’s never been.”

“Obviously.”

“To you.” 

Sherlock smiled as he moved the slide carefully, letting his eyes wander to Johns momentarily.

“And who is the other person?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sherl.” John feigned incompetency, earning an endearing glare from his husband.  “Fine.  A friend of hers who knew Hamish’s mother.  Still irritates me that we don’t know who the parents are.  Must be annoying the hell out of you, eh?”

Sherlock leaned away from the microscope, scribbling a few notes down and taking the slide out as he talked.  “It does, sometimes; I could easily find out who, but we must respect the mother’s wishes.”

“Aw, look at you, all grown up.” John teased.  Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

“Is that idiot husband of hers going to be there?”

“Oh, and right back we go.”

Tucking his things into a box and shutting off the microscope, Sherlock got up from the counter and crossed over to John, reaching for his waist and bringing his lips down to John’s.  John leaned up and into the kiss, his arms uncrossing to cup Sherlock’s neck and cheek.  Pulling away gently after a bit, Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s.

“I love you.” He told him softly.

“I love you too, Sherlock.”

“I don’t know what I would have done without you, my Watson.”   He said as he hugged John.

“Well, there was always Molly.” 

“Oh, you bastard!” Sherlock chuckled, pulling his husband into another kiss, longer and deeper.

Of course, Hamish decided to leave his room at that moment.

“Hey Da, Pa, who- Oh Christ!  My eyes!” 

John had to pull away, laughing heartily.

“You have a kid, remember?” Hamish accused them jokingly, crossing the room to the stove, where a fresh boiled kettle was waiting.                                                                                           

“When did that happen?” Sherlock quipped, making his son roll his eyes as he grabbed a cup.

“Who was that on the phone, Pa?” he asked as he poured the steaming water over his tea bag.

“Your aunt Darcy.  We’re seeing her tomorrow, after school.” John told him, leaning up against the door again.

“Oh, can’t it be during the day?  I really don’t want to go to school.” Hamish pleaded.

His parents shook their heads, but Sherlock lowered his stare, empathy in his eyes.

“Fine.” He bit out, taking a sip of his tea.  “Da, any further along on that field anomaly?”

Sherlock nodded.  “Wanna see?” he asked, moving to the microscope, shifting the notebook he wrote in to his son, starting up the microscope again.

“You’re asking?” Hamish said, stepping forwards and grabbing the notebook.

John smiled and moved away, opening his laptop and brought up his blog, checking through the comments, answering emails as Sherlock talked to their son, telling him the components of what was found in the field, explaining the abnormality of them, Hamish keeping up just fine.

* * *

 

“Come on, Sherlock!  We’re going to be late!” John called out from the landing of their flat as Sherlock left their bedroom, buttoning up his shirt.

“Hardly.” Sherlock said, slipping into his coat that his husband held out for him. “It will take not even a minute to get downstairs, another thirty seconds to get to Speedy’s and sit down.” He estimated, pulling his scarf around his neck.  “At which time a frequent adulterer with a smoking problem will ask us what we want: you’ll order a coffee for us and-”

“Oh, shut up, you.”  John growled leaning up and kissing Sherlock.

They sat down at a table in less than two minutes, a young girl with a low top and fidgety fingers bringing them their coffees.

Sherlock leaned forward over his drink.  “So why today exactly, do you think?” 

“Sorry?” John asked.

“Why do you think that Darcy just called up like that?”

“Oh my God.  Does Sherlock Holmes not know something?” John said, leaning back and smirking.

“Don’t be ridiculous John.  Of course I know.  But I’m asking what _you_ think.”

“Well,” John started, taking in a breath.  “It was the 13th anniversary of her friend’s death a few days ago.  She could have simply been thinking about her, and therefore Hamish.”

Sherlock smiled and spoke quietly.  “You’re half way there.  Of course that is true, but she has never brought a friend of Hamish’s mother or father, let alone mention one.   The fact that she has made the effort so close to the date of her friend’s death, when people usually tend to isolate themselves for a few days, tells us that this was not exactly planned.  She has never been known to be social when saddened, which she had told us so herself when we first met.  Obviously, she would still have been in mourning these past few days, so her coming up out of the blue speaks.

“Now, a friend.  If she was close to this person, she would have mentioned them at least once or twice in our twelve years of knowing her.  But seeing as she has not, that nods towards this person to not being a close companion of hers.”  John just shook his head, not being able to answer as Sherlock straightened up, spotting Darcy and Ian in the restaurants doorway.  John turned around and waved, making her smile and look behind her, motioning to the tall man in leather with a pensive expression on his face who stood behind them.

“John!  Sherlock!” she exclaimed as she walked up to their table.   John was the one to get up and hug her as Sherlock took them in, looking at their expressions and stances, able to see them for their every little detail, ignoring the stranger.  Darcy grabbed John and held onto him for a few moments while he patted her back.

“It’s good to see you John.”  She said quietly, a sadness in her voice.

“You too, Darcy.  It’s been too long.”

“Well” She gave him a last squeeze before letting go, John pulling out the chair for her “It wouldn’t be special if we saw each other all the time.  And then you would _have_ to admit your feelings for me.” They laughed together as they sat back down.

“Maybe one day, Darcy.” John poked back.

She nodded and looked up at Ian, smirking, who was sat down beside a newly cold Sherlock, back to his old, public stature. He offered his hand, Sherlock taking it and shaking firmly.  And naturally, as he looked the two up and down, he could see it all.

“Nice to see you too, Sherl.” Darcy poked, making the two men let go and Sherlock look back up slowly.

“And you too, Darcy.  I am sorry about your lunch-”  He stopped when John caught his eye and gave him a cautioning glare, making his husband sigh and settle back into his seat, keeping the gaze teasingly.

He couldn’t help but smile.

“Oh!”  Darcy started, clumsily getting back up and motioning towards the tall dark haired man, who was standing almost awkwardly, though most obviously- if Sherlock had looked up- observing.  “Guys, this Lo- Logan.  He was a… friend of J- Hamish’s mother.  He just sort of came up out of the blue.  Asked to tag along and, well, here he is!”  The man made little effort to say hello, nodding his head towards them.  He held himself high, a sadness etched into his elegant, handsome, fierce features.  John was the one who had looked up to wave at him and say hello, whilst Sherlock spared just a glance before grabbing John’s eyes again.  John groaned inwardly when Sherlock looked at him with classic ‘I told you’ eyes, the gears visible in his head, working on every bit of information that Darcy said had to offer.  Not for the first, nor the last time, John wondered how phenomenal it was in Sherlock’s mind, being able to see everything that happened in the world around them by seeing simply the smallest details.

“We just can’t say anything around you without you tearing it apart, can we?  You’re just a deducing little machine.” Darcy commented, smiling amusedly at Sherlock, who was still staring down John.

“I never stop.” He replied, not looking up. Darcy laughed before she realized that the man named Logan had nowhere to sit.

“Shit.  Wait a second.”  She stopped momentarily, looking for an extra chair.  She turned around and grabbed one from the table over, drawing it up to the end of the table.  “There you go.  Now we’re set.” She said, plunking herself back down into her seat.

“Thank you, Darcy.” The man named Logan said in his smooth accent, almost formally.  But Sherlock didn’t catch it, for once.  He was having a silent conversation with John:  Sherlock begging, John protesting.  The table was silent for a moment and Darcy smirked, propping her head up with her hand as she watched the two.  Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John, giving him a look of a child begging for candy.  John just narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

 Finally, Sherlock broke the silence.  “Oh, you have got to be kidding, John!”  Sherlock complained, letting out a sharp breath.  “Come on!  Please?  It’s written all over their faces!  Even you have to be able to see it.”  If was any person other than John, that sentence would have been offensive.  But to John, it was proof of how Sherlock loved him; that he considered John to be as great minded as himself, his equal.  Regardless though, John wasn’t letting up.

“No.  You just like to show off.  We’re not here to show how bloody brilliant you are.” He told his husband, fighting a smile.

“So you’re saying that I am?” Sherlock challenged, leaning forward.

“Sherlock.” John cautioned, so clearly an empty threat.  It became especially difficult for John to keep a straight face when his husband wiggled his eyebrows at him.  Darcy giggled as they stared each other down.

“Oh, you two are so cute, you know that?”  Darcy said, smiling, sitting up straight again.

They were interrupted momentarily as a waitress came to take their orders, Sherlock and John continuing their silent back and forth conversation.  When the waitress left again, John said, finally:

“Sherlock, come on.  This is Logan’s first time meeting us, have some manners.” 

“You know I don’t do that.”

“Sherlock…”

“Oh, Fine!” Sherlock sighed and turned to Logan with a put on smile.  “Hello Logan, I am Sherlock Holmes and this…”  Sherlock stopped abruptly, his eyes going wide as he actually took in the stranger.

“Sherlock?”  John asked, leaning forwards and touching his husband’s hand.  “What is it?”  His touch snapped Sherlock out of his momentary trance, but his eyes were still on Logan.  “…is my husband John Watson.” Sherlock finished absent mindedly, eyes calculating, lips parted.  John shook his head and looked over to Logan, smiling apologetically.    
“Sorry about my husband.  He never stops working.”  John said, offering his hand to the stranger.   He took it almost hesitantly, nodding.  And at that moment, Sherlock began muttering to himself.

“Not a prince.  No.  A king…” he muttered almost unintelligibly, not entirely there.  But Logan could hear, and he sat up straighter, more alert, if that was possible.  He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, their eyes meeting, both- obvious- great minds trying to figure the other out.

“Sherlock.” John pushed, his hand on his husbands, sensing how uncomfortable the situation had gotten.  John attempted to get his husband attention as Darcy cleared her throat, sipping her latte.

“Who are you?” ‘Logan’ muttered perplexedly, leaning forwards.

“I might ask the same.” Sherlock reciprocated, too leaning in.  ‘Logan’ broke the eye contact momentarily when Darcy choked on her drink, spluttering before recovering.

They never got the chance to say anything else though, because right then, a little red head boy came running in the doors, a too big messenger bag slung across his body.

“Hey Da, Pa, I’m sorry I-” The look on his fathers’ face was enough to stop him.   “Shit.” He muttered under his breath.  “uhh…”

Darcy was the one to speak, before Sherlock even had the chance to stand up. John was swiveled around in his chair.

“And who are you?” she asked sweetly, turned around in her chair to look at him. Sherlock had already gotten up and was moving around the table, staring briefly at ‘Logan’, who was frozen at the end of the table.

“Umm… Hamish’s friend.” The boy blurted out, his eyes searching for either of John or Sherlocks, a panicked look taking over them when he saw the detective making his way over to him.  Of course, Darcy nor Ian noticed.

“Oh, no way!  We’re just waiting for him.  Wanna join us?” she offered.

“No, he can’t.” Sherlock said sharply and grabbed the boys arm, having made his way over to the little red headed boy whose image his son had taken on.

“Oh, c’mon Sherlock.  Be nice.” Darcy appealed to his back as he guided his son away.

“Excuse us.” Sherlock said, already out of Speedy’s, his hand on his disguised son’s shoulder, guiding him, almost harshly, to the flat.  They stepped out of the doorway and turned the corner, slipping inside 221B and closing the door behind before calling out to make sure Mrs. Hudson wasn’t there.  Once sure, Sherlock turned once more to his son.

“Who was it this time?” he asked sternly, bending his knees only slightly to get to an easier speaking height.

“Just the usual twat’s.”  Hamish answered in a hard voice.  Sherlock gave him a reprimanding look, but nothing more.

“Hey!” Hamish shot back.  “At least I’m only changing my face!  I could learn to do so much worse!” his voice rang with barely concealed anger.

“I know, Hamish.  I know.”  Sherlock replied, putting a hand on the red heads shoulder.  “Speaking of which…”

Hamish pursed his lips and nodded, shutting his eyes.  With a dull shimmer that was near invisible, the façade of the little ginger kid and his clothing faded to reveal the tall young man with green eyes and raven hair, wearing the uniform he was burdened with at school. 

Sherlock gave Hamish a smile and he told him

“Quick, go change.  We’ll walk back together.”  Hamish nodded again and ran up the stairs, easily taking them three at a time, his long legs granting him the ability.  Sherlock turned to his phone while he waited, looking up when he heard Hamish coming back down the stairs, in his usual black jeans, a blazer over a t-shirt and a scarf thrown around his neck.   And Sherlock’s jaw dropped, making a final connection.

“What is it, Da?” Hamish asked, eyebrows drawn together as he descended the stairs, doing up his blazer.

Sherlock shook his head, putting his phone into his jacket pocket, and straightened up, brushing off the question.  “Let’s get back before your father comes and harasses us.” He joked, winking at his son.  He was about to open the door when Hamish asked

“Who is that other man?”  
Sherlock stopped, not speaking for a moment, and pondered.  He knew.  He knew who that man was, why he was there.  Should he reveal it to Hamish, his son who has never known his true family, or any of relation to him?  Sherlock quickly dismissed the idea, knowing how furious John would be if he did, having not told him first.

“A friend of Darcy’s.  He used to know your mother.”  To that, Hamish simply nodded and gestured to the door, waiting for his Da to open it. 

They made their way back to their table, no need to draw up another chair, as Ian had gotten a business call and had to leave.

They had concealed the mishap as best as possible, Darcy not even blinking or suspecting a thing.  She had embraced Hamish, holding him motherly, glancing at ‘Logan’ as she did so.  She held him at an arms-length, asking him general questions before letting him sit down.  John always found it strange when her personality changed around children, becoming kind and motherly.  John had asked Sherlock with his eyes if OK and Sherlock responded with a simple nod.  But Logan had the most interesting expression, which only solidified Sherlock’s suspicions.

They visited for a while, Mrs. Hudson coming out from the back of the shop at some point, sitting down and saying hello. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw the man called Logan, her hand flying to her chest and cheeks flushing as she took him in.  Even though she was older now, she was in frankly good health, especially for her habits. 

‘Logan’ was silent for the majority of the visit, speaking only when spoken to, remaining rigid with a solemn expression on his face, except for when Hamish, being the kind, polished boy he was- except when put in an unsavoury situation- spoke to him.  Then, he would smile, his cheeks breaking and he would talk animatedly, Hamish engaging happily and freely, clearly enjoying this strangers company and speech.  Logan’s eyes would light up and his shoulders relax: it was almost like you could see the ice break and fall off of him.  But he would freeze over when the boy’s attention was drawn elsewhere, and he would go back to how he was before.

When they finally got back up stairs to the flat, Hamish meandered off to his room, Sherlock taking off his coat and scarf, throwing them on the back of the chair and hovered, knowing that John- who had taken off his jacket and was standing by the door, arms crossed- wanted to talk.

“So…” John said.

“So what?”  Sherlock asked, feigning ignorance.

“You know what, Sherlock.” John waited before Sherlock drew his eyebrows up, giving his husband an innocent puppy dog look. “That thing, with Logan.  What was that about?”

Sherlock looked down immediately, his fingers spread out over that day’s newspaper on the table.    
“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that.”  John said, stepping forwards with his arms still crossed.

“It was nothing, John."

“Sherlock, I know your stares by heart.  That was hardly a breath off of when you deduced that Lestrade was sleeping with your brother.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”   Sherlock grimaced.

“Sherlock.”  John pressed.  Finally, Sherlock looked up at John and gave him a neutral look and a small shake of the head.

“It was nothing.” He repeated.

John bristled and began to stride over to the kitchen, which still took a while due to his small size.

“Fine.   Whatever Sherlock.  Whenever you feel like letting me in on it.”

“John.”  Sherlock implored, catching his arm as he tried to walk past.   He stared into his eyes deeply.  “I will.  Just not right now.  Not until I know for sure.”

John softened and nodded, leaning up to kiss Sherlock lightly before heading off to the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please tell me what you think!!!


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